Sweetheart
by inelegantprose
Summary: Princess Leia does not appreciate pet names.


She wasn't going to say it, was she? Now's not the time, she instructed herself. Of all the things to get righteous about… her father was always chastising her on this, saying it wasn't polite and that everyone had different customs (the irony was not lost on her) – but anyway her father was – with the rest of—

She shoved the thought out of her mind and sunk into her indignation instead. She could keep procrastinating on her grief, she knew it, for at least another few hours… and it felt so good to be righteous…

What was he saying now? Was he pouring them drinks? They still reeked of garbage and the Imperials were surely tracking them and he was ready to drink? I'd rather bathe, thanks, Leia thought, wrinkling her nose. And anyway, the blonde boy did not look old enough to drink. She couldn't imagine any world on which he'd be of age, other than maybe Corellia…

The man poured himself a generous glass of something, then passed one tin cup to the boy, then to Leia. "For you, kid. And, of course, for you, sweetheart."

There it was again, like a snicker or a threat. She made her eyes into narrow points and took the cup. Was she going to do it? Yes, she was. "You know," Leia began primly, then instantly regretted it – her voice sounded soprano and skittish. And was she shaking? She quickly downed her drink, "don't accept liquor from strange men" be damned. It was terrible, but it was something. "You know," she continued, her voice a bit lower, more confident, and more, she hoped, totally blasé. They were both looking absentmindedly at her– the blonde boy and the man. Han? Sort of morbidly curious. "Most women find that sort of thing rather demeaning."

She definitely had their attention now. "What sort of thing?" the man drawled. "Having their lives saved, darlin'?"

Leia winced. "No. That."

"What, sweetheart?"

"That."

"She means—" Luke began—

"I've got it, thanks – demeaning?"

Leia made a sound with her tongue and frowned. "I thought you might want to know."

"Believe it or not, you're not the first woman I've spoken to."

Leia snorted.

"Excuse me, your highness. I think you'll find that I have plenty of experience talking to 'most women' – demeaning?"

Luke cut in anxiously. "Guys, maybe we should prepare like, what we'll report when we arrive?"

"Demeaning and maybe even threatening, I would say," Leia said simply, reaching for the bottle. Her arm yelped – she winced.

"Threatening?! We just rescued your pretty head from the main Imperial—"

"Which I very much appreciate, but—"

"Oh, you appreciate it? I'm so glad—"

"But you don't need to make me viscerally aware of the fact that—"

Crash – the bottle slipped from her shaking hand. Han cursed and tried to wipe up the spill with a spare rag; Leia immediately knelt to collect the glass, turning her dress into a pouch. She ducked her head. Shaking? Surely she wasn't shaking…

"Careful… wouldn't want you to cut yourself on all that glass." A voice behind her. Leia straightened all of her vertebrae. "Er, it's me."

She stood abruptly, briskly emptying the little fabric she'd held together of the remains of the bottle. "I think I got most of it. Where were we? Viscerally aware of the fact that you're a man and—"

He was mostly ignoring her now, though – examining – what, her neck? Leia cringed. "Not an inexpensive bottle, you know."

"If you return me unscathed you'll be able to buy yourself all the bottles you want."

"What constitutes as a 'scathed'?"

He was leering at her, she was sure of it. Leia squeezed her eyes shut. She thought about space, dammit, doing that space thing again – situating her in a single place, no escape, no atmosphere, there was a reason, she suspected, they didn't like women to learn to pilot. When she opened them, Luke appeared to actually be in pain by this point, leaning out of his seat. "Guys. Please?"

Wait, was he actually in pain?

"Are you in pain?" she asked, frowning.

"Who, me? Oh, I don't know. Maybe a little. Think I cut myself during the Great Trash Dive or something."

She frowned again. "Let's get you cleaned up. Surely there's a kit around here."

(And maybe if she tended everyone's wounds or whatever like a good princess the man would stop looking at her like he was laughing at her or worse.)

As she stepped out to search, she could hear them talking about her. Luke, first, in that little way of his, like a kitten who thinks he's a cat: hey, I think you're really bugging her.

Yeah? She's bugging me.

What she said…

'Demeaning'? I couldn't 'demean' someone so snooty if I tried.

She's all alone, she's probably really scared, she doesn't know who we are…

Who 'we' are? When did you and I become a 'we,' kid? There's no 'we' – there's we as in me and Chewie and the Falcon but—

When she reentered with the kit they fell silent. "Don't let me ruin all your fun," she deadpanned. All alone. Really scared. Witnessed a planetary genocide… "Luke?"

Why was he looking at her like she was an injured animal when he really was maybe three mutations away from being a baby desert mouse? "Hey, you can – get some rest, I'm sure I can sort myself out…"

Leia blanched. "I'm not tired. You're bleeding. So." She turned and headed to the fresher, took a moment to collect herself. Thought she heard Han – hey, if you don't join her in there, I will. How much longer until they reached the base? She checked the fresher door – it locked. She bet all the doors did. Good but also very bad, depending. When Luke joined her, she nodded simply. "Could you take off your shirt, please?"

He seemed a bit stunned.

"It's your side, isn't it? It seems to be your side, at least." She scrubbed her hands – merciful water, blessed soap.

"My right side," he admitted, and slowly unbuttoned. "Thanks, Your Highness."

"Leia will do." She tried to sound cavalier: "He still out there?"

"I think he switched with Chewie."

"Mm." She took his shirt from him – he was a skinny little thing. Bony, like a picky child – she lifted up his arms, then, his side was bruised terribly, probably when he fell, but the gash wasn't too awful – wide surface area hence the blood, but probably not too deep. She touched it lightly – was he standing on his tiptoes? "Sorry?"

"It really doesn't hurt Your Highness – Leia." His voice was weirdly… gruff now? Oh, she realized, he was posturing, that's what it was. "You don't need to—"

Leia was annoyed: "It obviously does hurt. It's. A gash. It hurts." She leaned over and began to wipe the area with the kit's antiseptic. "Sorry, it'll sting a bit…" she said, too late.

Luke was studying her again. And flushing. "What happened to your neck? It's all – purple."

"Imperial torture chamber, what happened to yours?"

"What?"

"It's all – red."

He flushed deeper. "Sorry."

She finished wrapping the wound, taking her time to be careful, to do it right. "Alright. Not perfect but should be fine until we get to the base." She handed him his shirt, washed her hands. "Luke? Thank you."

He cleared his throat, still red. "Oh, it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. I do appreciate it."

"Um, thank you. For. My side."

She nodded, leaned against the sink. Could she possibly just pass the rest of the time in here? Luke seemed to take his cue and exited. She leaned deeper against the sink – something was definitely rattling, she looked back and realized it was her, her hands quivering against the metal. Stop that, now. And her hands were princesses and they obeyed.

She took a moment to assess the damage – her side was definitely bruised, too, maybe even her ribs. Bruising on her neck and below. The burns – all the way down her back, she was sure, maybe on the backs of her legs too. Her hair was sticky, probably just trash and whatever else, maybe a small head wound because blood seemed feasible. Then there was the whole situation under her skirts to deal with…

She fixed her buns, and with every stray hair restored she felt her back shift straighter and her chin tilt higher and her gaze settle into its consternated but measured home. If the dress was grubby at least it was straight on her shoulders, and still a tall column of mostly white.

And then the doorknob twisted – she hadn't locked it? Amateur hour. Before she could squeak, there he was, the small room suddenly smaller.

"You know, if you want privacy, you really ought to lock it."

"You really ought to knock. I was just leaving." She moved to slip out; he blocked her deftly.

"Do you need a place to lie down or something?" (She narrowed her eyes.) "Damn. You really like doing that, don't you?"

(She narrowed them further.) "What?"

"That." (He did an imitation. It was poor.)

"I don't need a place to 'lie down.' Because I know what you're going to say. Because you're revolting."

"You said it, sweetheart."

She looked up at him and let her voice drop as low and hissing as she dared. "In the future, I would advise you to seriously consider empathizing with what it means to be a foot smaller and many, many pounds lighter – and I'd wager a decade younger, actually, alone, hurtling through space, on a ship you cannot pilot, with no radio, a bruised-up side and Stormtrooper semen in your braids before you block the door and call me _sweetheart_."


End file.
